Portrait of a Prince Who Would Be King
by jinjinbun
Summary: //I would be her Prince, she declared, and brushed my face tenderly as if I was her treasured child.// Meanwhile Ichigo sets off on a path he never intended to take, but one that could change everything. *AU. Eventual IchiRuki, other warnings inside.*
1. When he was only paper

_Bleach_ belongs to Kubo Tite; I do not own. Lyrics are from "_The Last Night_" by Skillet; I do not own either.

WARNINGS: AU. May include RenRuki, one-sided KaienRuki, and eventual IchiRuki.

...

**Portrait of a Prince (Who Would Be King)**

**Chapter 1: When he was only paper**

.

In all the fairytales she had ever read, they began with "Once Upon A Time." She never thought that her fairytale would begin with an ending… the act of saying goodbye.

......

_You come to me with scars on your wrist  
You tell me this will be the last night feeling like this  
"I just came to say goodbye  
I didn't want you to see me cry, I'm fine"_

_But I know it's a lie._

* * *

When she was still a child, Rukia dreamed of a prince who would rescue her from the pits of her despair.

It was harmless enough for a dream—hasn't every little girl at some point wished for a strong heroic figure to sweep her away to some castle in the sky, where she'll be adored and protected and cared for? And after all Rukia was a rough little street-rat, weaned too early from the milk of human kindness… an orphaned guttersnipe who spent her days stealing and running around with decidedly similar company. While she could take care of herself from day to day, one would expect that loving adoration was a hard commodity to come by.

One day she was scooped up from the gutter and transported to a beautiful mansion, all cultured garden and gleaming wood and polished silver, and she thought her dreams had been answered.

Rukia was adopted into the noble family of the Kuchiki, on her dead sister's behalf… and yet no matter how hard she looked, her prince was simply not there. Her older brother (-in-law) Kuchiki Byakuya was handsome enough for the role, but far too forbidding. When his eyes passed over her she felt like dust, swiped away by the sheer dismissiveness of his gaze.

So she ran away, and made her way back to the streets she had once freely roamed. Her best and oldest friend Renji sheltered her for a while in his gang of fighters-for-hire, but (as he all too often reminded her, especially when he stumbled in while she was changing) it was no place for a girl.

"I'm sorry Rukia," he apologized finally, scratching the tattoos that arched just shy of his hairline and trying not to stare below her neckline, "but Ikkaku's been complaining, and Hisagi and Kira and the others have been making comments. You'll have to leave."

"Now?"

"Not right away," he added hastily, flushing (the comments had mostly been directed at the nature of the relationship Renji and Rukia shared, and some of them had been sufficiently lewd that Renji had made his decision to remove the rumors at the root). "I-I mean… Yumichika doesn't mind sharing his room, so there's no time limit. Still, I think you're better off where you were—living in comfort, with your new b-brother."

Her violet eyes seemed to dim, and the fiery-haired youth felt his heart sink with the knowledge that his words had saddened her. "…Do you truly think that, Renji?"

_No, I want you to stay, to be at my side always… like you did in our younger, less complicated days_.

"Yes."

"...I see." Rukia rose to her tiny feet, and instinctively Renji held out a hand to help her. Not because she needed it, but because he needed to show her that he was still her friend, and that he cared for her (more than he'd ever admit).

She brushed him off coolly at first, which was only to be expected. Still, he persisted, clutching her arms with his broad-knuckled hands. "Rukia—"

"Don't."

"I _DO_ want you here, okay?" burst out of him in desperation, because she wasn't looking at him and she stood still and pale and cold like an ice sculpture, except for her ebony-feathered hair and deep exotic eyes, the color of amethysts and bruises.

_I want you. Please, understand…_

"I know." She turned a little in his grasp and smiled at him—it was a light, brittle smile, but tempered with a softness that was not ice or hatred (yet cut all the deeper because of it).

_I understand your betrayal, and I will forgive you… because that is all I can do, because you are my friend_.

"Thank you for everything, Renji. Farewell."

* * *

So she was alone again, wandering aimlessly… thinking,_ I wish you could have been my prince, Renji, but that would have been too simple, wouldn't it?_

* * *

"Yo. You've got talent, girl."

"What?" Rukia blinked and raised her head, looking up into guileless blue eyes rimmed with eyelashes. She'd been lost in thought over her paper and pencils, letting her mind drift while her fingers worked to recreate the play of shadow and light on the chisel-faced man who sat at his usual corner, fingering his battered sword with a lazy hunger and glaring at all passersby.

"You. Talent." The dark-haired, blue-eyed man bent over her drawing, removing a hand from his sleeve to point at the lines of her unfinished sketch.

"See, I especially like how you captured his wild hair, and the muscles—whew, _tough_ guy—and the danger signs of his body language. Angles, scars, eye patch… you look at him and you just KNOW that he's bad news. He's not looking at you now, but you get the feeling that if he turned his head this way, you'd be skewered by the daggers in his gaze.

"Yet, you also managed to capture the more hidden things—loyalty, and kindness." His finger moved, indicating the little pink-haired cherub who nestled in the crook of the man's left arm and leg, her eyes closed in slumber, sweetly unaware of the world around her.

Delicately tracing the curve of the child's cheek and the loose protective fingers of the arm she used as a pillow, he remarked, "Not many have your talent, or your eyes. It's a rare gift you have, you know!"

"Aah… t-thank you, milord." Rukia dipped her head in embarrassment and a little panic, for she saw by the insignia on his sleeve and the intricacy of his sword guard that he was a noble, and she cursed her inattentiveness. "This, your miserable servant humbly thanks you for your—"

"_Che_! None of that," tsked the man, cutting her off with a gesture and sitting down on the crate her customers sat on to pose for drawings. "It's a compliment, a _compliment_! From one amateur artist to another. None of this superior-inferior, 'Your Humble Servant' stuff. Okay?"

"O-Okay."

"Good." The stranger sat back for a moment, studying her closely. Flustered, Rukia lowered her eyes to her drawing, but for some reason she couldn't focus. Her head was awhirl and full of questions.

_Who is he? What does he want? Does he recognize me?_

"…Tell you what. You look like you've been living hand to mouth, with all respect, and from what I can tell you've been selling your art to make a living. Is that true?"

Rukia nodded—unable to speak, unable to lift her eyes.

"Then I'm going to commission you to draw my portrait." The man smiled as he said it, leaning forward to recapture her sight. "I've always wanted something for my family to remember me by, when I'm gone. Depending on how you do, I might even commission another one, to send to my sister and brother!"

_A portrait? He wants me to…?_ Rukia gaped at him, stupefied. _I'm not nearly qualified!_ One part of her mind babbled, while another part of her swooned at the thought of _commissions_ and what she could EAT on a payment like that.

(Yet another part revived an old, half-forgotten tune about fairytales and princes, but was promptly shunted aside for later recollection.)

"Of course, I'm not expecting it to be done immediately. In the meantime you can come and live with me, or study under my _sensei_. He can help you to refine your already remarkable skills, Miss—er?"

"Rukia."

"Oh? Rukia… no surname? Just Rukia?" The man's eyebrows climbed, but he grinned all the same. "Well, _I'm_ one to talk. Name's Shiba, Shiba Kaien… but you can call me Kaien-dono, or Kaien_-samaaa_!"

He chuckled as he said it, and in the midst of her shock Rukia felt herself lifted by the sound of his laughter.

_He's so strange, this noble. He's nothing like my (adopted family, adopted) brother at all._

"Sooo… what do you say, Rukia?" He said her name slyly, with something of a jokingly roguish air, but she didn't mind the implied intimacy. In fact she was _past_ minding, and into wishing it were true.

"Yes."

* * *

Shiba Kaien (or "Kaien-dono," as she came to call him) was as good as his word.

He installed Rukia in his _sensei_'s house, with promises to build her an abode of her own whenever and wherever she pleased. His _sensei_, a kind but ailing man, treated her well and taught her to the best of his ability (and his health, which was most often the issue). She shared her days with two fellow acolytes, Kiyone and Sentarou, and found them friendly and affectionate, and zealously eager to help her or "Ukitake-_sensei_!" in any capability.

Best of all, Kaien-dono came by often to see her and observe her progress, and, on occasion, to sit for his picture. These, Rukia treasured as the best times of all.

"You're getting better, Rukia," he'd say admiringly, posed in various attitudes as she sketched busily away (sometimes in pencil, sometimes in charcoal or when she was daring, in ink). "You're a better credit to Ukitake-_sensei_ than I ever was."

"Oh, no," Rukia would always demur, fighting the flush of pleasure that always surfaced when he praised her. "I couldn't possibly—"

"None of that false modesty, Rukia-chan!" he laughed, ruffling her hair with almost paternal fondness. "You've got more heart than a lot of artists out there… I can see it in your art. You're just that good."

"I—"

"Aah, but that's enough for today! Come on, Rukia, let's go outside and get some fresh air. I'll teach you to fight with a sword—did you know swordplay and art, if done well, are similar in their aesthetic beauty? No? Well, then!" And then Kaien-dono would drag her outside, leaving the sketch unfinished. Later Rukia would come back and put it in a portfolio, and store it for the next time (which never came—she always used a fresh sheet of paper, every time he visited).

She still dreamed of her prince, even in this happy golden life. Not because she was dissatisfied, no, not at all… but because these days, more often than not, she found that said prince wore Kaien-dono's face, his mannerisms, and his smile.

"_Oh? Rukia… no surname? Just Rukia?_" he'd ask like he did when they first met, except this time he was carrying her away on horseback, her arms around his neck and his long-fingered hands hooked behind her back and under her knees. "_If you want a surname, you can have mine,_" he'd say with a wink, and Rukia would wake, blushing and hot and with a lingering sense of embarrassment that made it near impossible to concentrate on art for that day.

It was impossible, anyway. Rukia was already adopted…

Just like Shiba Kaien was already married.

What was worse, Rukia could not find it within herself to find fault with Miyako, his beloved wife. She was tall yet graceful, slender and fair—she did not draw, but she wrote the most beautiful, most simply intricate calligraphy Rukia had ever seen.

"I first fell in love with Miyako's wrists," Kaien-dono confided to Rukia once, as they watched her prepare tea a little distance away from them.

"Look at them, the way they bend and move so smoothly through the air—how white they are. Even if it wasn't for her obvious intelligence and beauty, I think I'd have proposed marriage because of those wrists alone."

"You really must love her," Rukia remarked quietly, her heart aching for reasons she would not voice, except in her mind: _I envy you (her)_. Her own wrists were thin and bony, and in shame she hid them in her sleeves.

"I do." Shiba Kaien smiled softly. "But our hearts are not our own, you know, when one begins to love."

"What do you mean?"

"Our hearts beat in time with those of our fellows, our dear companions. Miyako… Ukitake-_sensei_… Kiyone, Sentarou… and most recently, you, Rukia." He ruffled her hair with affectionate ferocity, as was his habit.

"I can relax, knowing my heart is safe with all of you."

* * *

It was a shock to everyone when Shiba Miyako suddenly died—like a flower in full bloom, its pale blossom snapped cleanly off its stem—and none mourned her death more so than her husband.

"They had been so close, and so devoted to each other," sighed those who were tasteless enough to discuss it mere days after the last rites had been conducted and the funereal offerings were made for her soul. "Such a tragedy."

Not long after, less savory rumors traveled: that Shiba Kaien had taken to wandering the darker alleys and sections of the city after dark, seeking the shade of his dead wife ("to follow her, most likely"). Unable to find her with the fuzzy sight of mortal sobriety, he'd summoned spirits (of the alcoholic sort—"shameful, for a man of his status!") to focus his eyes to the realm of the dead.

Maybe he'd thought he'd find her, still in the grips of the demonic agents who would lead her ethereal soul to the underworld. It was said that Shiba Kaien was a master swordsman, and doubtless it would be simple enough for him to take care of a couple of little devils. He'd carry her back gently but firmly, holding on tightly enough that the wind wouldn't blow her away.

Rukia imagined that if ever there was a man (no, a _prince_) who would fight to the gates of Hell and back to rescue the woman he loved, it was Kaien-dono.

Yet, even princes are mortal. And sometimes…

They fail.

* * *

"Kaien-dono!" she screamed, clutching the _wakazashi_ he'd tossed her to her chest, like it was a protective talisman. "Stop this!"

"Take back what you said, you misbegotten son of a—!"

"What? Which part, milord?" sneered his opponent, parrying his wild slash. "The part where I said I know the truth about your wife's death, or where I called her a faithless harlot?"

"Both!" The ringing clash of steel on steel, punctuated by screams of terror and of drunken rage. "How _dare_ you slander Miyako?!"

"No slander, _milord_," the man grimaced as Kaien drew blood, the honorific twisted into a curse.

"For it was no other than_ I_ who killed her. I left her the way you found her, naked and strangled on her futon—"

"_No_—"

"You must have noticed the bruises on her wrists as well? And her lovely thighs… I'll admit, she was much more difficult to compromise than I thought she would be, for a genteel woman." The self-confessed murderer bared his teeth in a lecherous grin, apparently enjoying Kaien-dono's expression and building fury.

"But as I've found, it's hard to argue when you're running out of air."

A keening howl erupted, shattering the night air like shards of so much grief and heartbreak and blind rage that it seemed to literally pierce the listener. Rukia trembled, bracing her legs against the wall and unsheathing the _wakazashi_. It was only a short blade, but seemed oversized in comparison to her fists clenched about the grip. Right now it was all she could do to stay upright, let alone run away.

"Why did you kill her?" said Kaien in a voice Rukia did not recognize, rasping and hoarse with sheer hate. "Tell me, before I split your belly and leave your innards for the dogs to eat, your eyeballs and bones for the crows to pick at. WHY _HER_?"

"Why?" The man stood straight, his sword held steady in front of him, and smiled. "Because no one deserves to be so fortunate, when misery is all around us. Only in death are we all equal."

"…Is that your reason, then? Is that all you have to say?"

"All that I'm _going_ to say. What did you expect, an apolo—"

_SHUNKT_.

Rukia's eyes widened.

"Then hear THIS," Kaien snarled softly in the man's face, each word lingering indefinitely in the suddenly hushed alleyway. It was, Rukia thought, almost as if the ghosts themselves had drawn close to listen, and thus had blocked out all unnecessary sounds.

"Even in death you are not, and will never be, _equals_ with my wife. She, who was all that was good and kind and beautiful…! May she ascend to the heavens unsoiled by the dross of this world, and crush your head underfoot with those of the sinners bound for hell."

"Heheh… it may be as you say." The murderer grinned weakly as he coughed, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "Neither of us… will outlive this night.

"But now you're also a murderer, so together we'll go to hell. So much for your peerless Miyako!"

"Perhaps hell _is_ our destination. But not together—_you're_ going first." Kaien freed his sword from where he'd run it through the man's ribs, spilling a fresh gout of blood on the ground and eliciting a choked gasp—and for the first time Rukia noticed the identical gash that marred his torso.

The blade slipped from her bloodless fingers, to clatter uselessly on the ground.

"Ah, there you are…" At the sound Kaien-dono turned to her, sounding mildly disapproving. "I thought I told you to run, didn't I?"

_As if he didn't just willingly incur a fatal wound to avenge the death of his wife_, some part of Rukia (which was not dazed with horror) fumed.

"I… Kaien-dono—!"

"Eh… well, it's good this way too," Kaien continued heedlessly and cheerfully, stepping forward with agonizing deliberateness. With each step, the cloth of his dark _hakama_ slapped wetly against his skin.

"At least, this way… I won't have to die alone," he finished with an effort, just as his legs gave way and he fell to the ground.

"Kaien-dono!" Rukia ran to him, turned him over to see his face.

There was no need to examine the wound again—with this degree of injury, it was clear medical help would be useless. Even though she knew that he had at the most mere minutes to live, Rukia couldn't help but vent:

"You… of all the reckless, _stupid_—!"

"Yes, yes… I know, I'm an idiot." Kaien chuckled hollowly, the air rattling his throat as he breathed. "If I'd been thinking, I wouldn't have made you accompany me tonight—this burden shouldn't rest wholly on your shoulders."

"A BURDEN?! You, you describe your _death_ as—" Rukia choked back her indignation and wiped furiously at her eyes.

What was this? She _never_ cried... not when her brother rejected her, not even when Renji turned her away.

Damn this sudden rain, falling on her cheeks and rolling down like tears.

"I'm sorry, Rukia… now, don't look like that. Sorry I couldn't stay longer… I'd have liked to see…" His voice faded, and he smiled gently, beatifically. "…Miyako's waiting for me."

He died a few seconds later, his wife's name on his lips like a final prayer. This left Rukia alone with the bodies of two dead men, in the solitude of an alley, in the midst of a downpour (slowly washing away the blood and the horror and the words).

_My heart... safe with you._

_I'm sorry._

It was only then that Rukia allowed herself to weep—for the deaths of Kaien-dono and Miyako-dono, of innocence and her hopes for the future, of dreams of princes.

"Kaien-dono," she whispered, her broken hiccups gradually crescendoing into a shrill, harsh sob, drowned in the rush and patter of the falling rain.

"You _FOOL_."

**...**

**TBC**.

* * *

A/N: My first _Bleach_ attempt. Trying out a new fandom for 'fic!

And yes, the ironic bit is that Rukia in canon universe is a rather, er... _terrible _artist. (Although Kon disagrees with this statement!) As the first chapter, this is mainly setting up the premise of the plot-- the next chapter should make it clearer.

Please review if you read, and tell me what you think? Thoughtful critique is always appreciated.


	2. When he was White paper and blood

_Bleach_ belongs to Kubo Tite; I do not own. Lyrics are from "_The Last Night_" by Skillet; I do not own either.

WARNINGS: Same as before.

...

**Portrait of a Prince (Who Would Be King)**

**Chapter 2: When he was White (paper and blood)**

.

_I had a sword in my hand, and I didn't help him. I was a coward._

**...**

_His death is as good as my fault. Because of me, because of __**my**__ hesitation, Kaien-dono died._

_**...**_

_**I killed Kaien-dono.**_

......

_Your parents say everything is your fault  
But they don't know you like I know you, they don't know you at all_

_"I'm so sick of when they say  
It's just a phase, you'll be okay; you're fine"_

_But I know it's a lie._

* * *

"So, you came to tell me of my brother's death."

A tendril of smoke wafted languorously above them as the noblewoman spoke, the pipe dangling precariously from the fingers of her one hand. Bringing it briefly to her mouth, Shiba Kūkaku tilted back her head and breathed out a matching smoke ring, small but perfect in its roundness.

"Interesting…" Her eyes narrowed. "Especially considering the fact we buried his ashes more than three weeks ago."

"Yes." Rukia kept her head bowed, praying that her face remained impassive. "I… apologize that I didn't come sooner. I wasn't sure of my reception, but Ukitake-_sensei_ thought it was appropriate—"

"Hn. Perhaps it was… After all, you were the only one to witness it when it happened."

Rising to her feet with a light grumble, Kaien-dono's sister stepped off the podium and meandered around the edges of the room, apparently in total disregard of her visitor's subservient posture.

"How thoughtful of that sickly old fossil, to bestir himself. Please convey my thanks to Ukitake, and my best wishes for the continuation of his health."

Discounting her missing limb and her prodigiously feminine curves, it was undeniable that Shiba Kūkaku closely resembled her brother in appearance. It seemed she had also in large part his frankness, although accompanied by a readily sarcastic tongue.

"What was your relationship to my older brother, Kuchiki?" she asked at last—her low voice carrying clearly through the oppressively silent room.

_Relationship...?_

The color started up quickly in Rukia's cheeks, but she steadfastly stared at the wooden cracks in the floor and willed it into oblivion. "He… Kaien-dono…"

_What was he to me?_

"I heard that he first met you as a girl selling drawings on the corner of the city road, and that he took you in," Kūkaku continued, studying one of the hanging wall scrolls and contemplatively tapping the stem of her pipe on her chin. "He spoke quite highly of you, '_Rukia'_. In his last letter, he said it was as if you'd become a member of the family."

* * *

"_Our hearts beat in time with those of our fellows, our dear companions. Miyako… Ukitake-_sensei_… Kiyone, Sentarou… and most recently, you, Rukia._

_I can relax, knowing my heart is safe with all of you."_

* * *

_How can I say it? _Rukia squeezed her eyes shut, fighting her despair, the wave of grief and guilt that had incapacitated her for so long.

_I can hardly face you, knowing my weakness condemned your brother to hell._

"…You're rather quiet, for someone who knew Kaien." The one-armed woman glanced shrewdly back at her, eyebrows cocked at the exact same angle as her brother's used to. "Don't tell me you came to confess some deep dark secret, like that you were—"

"I'm SORRY!" Rukia cried out abruptly, folding her hands and knocking her forehead to the ground.

"You're right. _**I came to confess my guilt in Kaien-dono's death!**_"

"—in love with him or someth…" Kūkaku trailed off, blinked. "Wait. What did you just say?"

"His _wakazashi_… it was in my hands. I had it out, to d-defend myself if I had to, like he said." Rukia struggled to make the sentences flow and connect, like she wanted them to. Instead the words seemed to burst forth in short clumsy spurts, mangling their meanings in her incoherence.

Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging bloodless half-moons into her palms.

"If only I had not been so… so _cowardly_… I would have—"

"You would have... WHAT? Saved his life, at the cost of his pride?" Kūkaku strode over to where she'd abased herself, crouching in front of her.

"Look at me."

Rukia obeyed, and in the next moment she nearly fell flat on her face. With a strength that belied her looks, Shiba Kūkaku closed her hand around both of Rukia's and lifted them up over their heads with ease.

"Look at these skinny little wrists of yours. I'm surprised you could hold a sword, let alone consider rushing in and stabbing a man like that from behind!" the older woman snorted. "Don't let your imagination run away with you. My brother may have taught you the basics, but you're far from being able to handle a competent swordsman who was, by all accounts, able to hold his own against a Shiba."

"But…"

"If you really think you've done something that needs my forgiveness, then EARN it!" snapped Kūkaku impatiently, shaking her.

"By killing that man, Kaien probably saved your life. It's up to you to make use of it—in some suitably atoning way, if that makes you happy, but really I could care less how you choose to spend the rest of your existence as long as you do SOMETHING."

* * *

"_**I've always wanted something for my family to remember me by, when I'm gone."**_

* * *

"Something…" Rukia hesitated, feeling the solitary, niggling tug of an idea.

* * *

"_**Sorry I couldn't stay longer… I'd have liked to see…**_**"**

* * *

The voice—_Kaien-dono's voice_—filled her head until it pulsed, sending sparks of recollection down her spine and through all of her nerve endings. "There is… something."

"What?"

"A portrait… Kaien-dono wanted me to paint a portrait of him. That's why—"

_That's why I was able to stay with him_.

Shiba Kūkaku searched her eyes, her face for a long, tense moment. After what seemed like several minutes had passed, she nodded and released Rukia's wrists, getting to her feet. "Then do it.

"Finish my brother's portrait, Kuchiki Rukia—no matter how long it takes you. Only when you have completed this final obligation to Kaien, can you consider yourself fully absolved of whatever blame you believe you hold."

* * *

Needless to say, the remainder of Rukia's conference with Shiba Kūkaku was rather short, and it was with great relief that the former fled the premises.

The first thing she did was to go to Ukitake-_sensei_ and tell him what had happened. She proceeded to thank him for the kindness that he had shown her, and then begged permission to stay a little longer, while she decided how to continue.

"But of course—stay as long as you like, it's no trouble!" Ukitake exclaimed, and urged her to consider his modest residence as her own. Despite his still-youthful features he was an elderly man, and his body and organs were steadily and gradually withering away. He would be honored if she would keep him (and Kiyone and Sentarou) company until then.

Rukia thanked him for his offer, but very firmly turned it down.

"I've seen my fill of death lately," she offered by way of explanation, bowing deeply. "Please allow me some time, to sort out my feelings."

"Ah." Ukitake-_sensei_ nodded understandingly. "Will you return to the Kuchiki estate, then?"

(Since it was unavoidable, Rukia had given her surname when she had reported Kaien's death to the authorities. Luckily for her, the very mention of '_Kuchiki' _effectively cleared her of all suspicion.)

"…No," Rukia answered, after a short pause. It no longer mattered whether anyone knew her true identity, as she fully intended to continue to elude her brother's search—but she would not further stain the Kuchiki name by revealing her reasons why. "No, I do not think I will."

* * *

Sentarou accosted her outside her room and handed her a narrow vase filled with pure water. "This is for you, Rukia-sama."

"And this too!" announced Kiyone, running up waving two flowers—a white lily, and a white chrysanthemum. "Deepest apologies Rukia-sama, they're uncut. I was going to, but this dolt here ran off with the vase—"

"You two don't need to be so formal," Rukia tried to say as she always did, but found the offerings thrust in her face before she could.

"It was a man with bright red hair—"

"Yes, yes, with some kind of tribal tattoo thing going over his eyebrows—"

"—and he asked for a Kuchiki Rukia. Kiyone-chan here thought he was _SOOO cuuute_—"

"What?! NO, all I said was that if I had someone to send me flowers, I'd pray they'd be at least _half_ as cool-looking!"

_Ah. So **Renji** has found me_.

Rukia did her best to smile at them as they squabbled, heedless of her presence.

"Thank you for telling me. I'll cut them myself." So saying, she took the vase and the flowers and slid the door closed behind her.

In the privacy of her private quarters, she pulled out Kaien-dono's _wakazashi_. (Officially, she should have given it to the Shibas... but it was the last thing he had ever given her, besides a smile and a bloodstained apology. Didn't that make it rightfully hers, at least enough to keep?)

Turning the blade in her right hand, Rukia picked up one of the two flowers at random and slid the stem along the sharpened edge.

White lily, which stood for purity and majesty. It was also her flower, _Rukia's_ flower, and the briefest sniff of its sweet lingering fragrance had as powerful an effect on her as hearing Renji murmuring her name. Shaking off the reminiscing (and the strange shiver that went down her spine at the thought of his lips close, his voice a mere rumble along the shell of her ear), Rukia quickly cut the stalk at the right angle and settled it in the vase.

White chrysanthemum, for condolences… an offering of sympathy for her sorrow. Rukia cut this one with more viciousness, wincing as she nicked her thumb in the process.

Truth… that was what it meant. White chrysanthemums also stood for _truth_.

Was _that_ what this was, then? Could she accept that princes no longer existed, if ever they had condescended to set foot in the muck of reality?

Most likely it hadn't been Renji's intention to say that—doubtless he never knew of her fantastical ideal in the first place—but Rukia felt the hidden barb keenly, all the same.

_..._

_Truth is a harsh master, but that cannot stop me. Only death will cause me to shed these dreams,_ she vowed silently.

_I promise you this much, Kaien-dono… I will _not_ die alone_.

* * *

"The painter... put upon the paper the fewest possible lines and tones; just enough to cause form, texture and effect to be felt. Every brush-touch must be full-charged with meaning, and useless detail eliminated. Put together all the good points in such a method, and you have the qualities of the highest art…"

–Arthur Wesley Dow, _Composition_.

* * *

After sorting through her portfolio, Rukia finally came across a sketch that was perfect (_so she thought_) for the portrait.

Surprisingly it wasn't of Kaien-dono, or even for that matter a serious work. It was merely the bare bones of some lines on coarse-grained paper, depicting a featureless man. Beside him she had sketched the beginnings of a horse.

It could work, she thought. Though he occasionally preferred to traverse the town as a pedestrian, Kaien-dono had owned quite a few horses before his… decease. Storm-crested Nejibana, with his braided tail and steel-blue mane, had always been his favorite—and since the death of his master, the spirited horse had simply refused to eat. It was a wretched sight, to see the once-proud horse so wasted and despondent, almost lacking the basic will to maintain life.

_If this is so, then I will capture Nejibana in his prime… and Kaien-dono as he once was_. With that thought Rukia was resolved, and reached for her _sumi_ set.

She stretched and flattened out the paper with two wooden paperweights, ensuring there would be no wrinkles in drying. Adding a little water from the vase to the stone's depression, she ground the ink until it was a deep smooth black color. She chose her favorite rabbit-hair-tipped brush, and dabbed it until the white-brown hairs were thoroughly stained with ink.

She remembered how Miyako-dono would write, lifting her sleeves away from the paper and fingers holding firmly to her brush—applying bold swallow-tail strokes, arcing hooks and unequivocal teardrops. She moved unhesitatingly, her wrists supple and brush flying back and forth, down across the paper.

When she finished, Rukia set down her brush and frowned. She had done her best and captured the image of Kaien-dono and Nejibana as best as she could, entirely from memory. And yet… it seemed _off_, somehow.

As if something small, but crucial, was missing…

Going back and riffling through her extensive collection of unfinished Kaien-sketches, Rukia swore under her breath. Her suspicions were correct—Kaien-dono's hair had been just a little longer, his eyelashes a little more prominent. Plus in all of the sketches he'd been grinning, his eyes alight with some shared joke or anecdote.

What she'd just painted was a sober young man, his expression closed off and forbidding, with the reins of the horse gripped tightly in his hand. With his eyebrows furrowed and his lips a thin tight gash in his face, he looked nothing like the Kaien she remembered so fondly.

…Rather, it was more like the Kaien who fought so savagely just before he died, anger and hatred fueling his determination.

Rukia shuddered, gripping her arm unconsciously as she forcibly dispelled the images. That _wasn't_ how she wanted to remember him... her prince-like Kaien-dono.

Snatching up her brush, Rukia attempted to correct her mistakes. But she was too shaken, and instead fixing it her efforts only made it worse—in trying to add eyelashes she accidentally blotted in the whites of his eyes; in making him smile she turned his scowl into an almost fiendish grin, at odds with the frowning angle of his brows and the black strangeness of his inverted eyes.

_Look at me,_ it seemed to say. _Acknowledge me._

**_Name me._**

"I guess it's just as well," Rukia finally expelled in a sigh, setting down her brush and looking at her picture with mixed dismay and resignation. This picture was ruined as a portrait of Kaien-dono… she'd have to try again, when her mind and hands were calmer.

Still, the picture itself was not bad… Rukia smiled a little reluctantly as she studied the serious-yet-barbaric-looking young man, brushing the picture as it dried. Some smears of blood from her thumb marred the right side of his face (_his_ left), but now it ceased to matter. No one would see this picture but herself.

"For a failure, you're pretty decent. More than I can say for myself, as an artist… look, I made the horse too wild for Nejibana, even. What a prince, to tame such a stallion!" She tried out a small half-hearted smile at her frivolity in talking to the painting—her first, since that terrible night washed in blood.

"_Prince on a White Horse_. You'll be my White Horse Prince, alright? White for short… _Shiro_. I'll call you Shiro, oh Prince. You're all white anyway, so it makes sense."

It was strange but comforting to speak in such a way, to an inanimate object that couldn't talk back. Rukia smiled her little smile and went about putting up her brushes, rinsing out the ink.

_**Shiro. Your name is **_**Shiro**_**.**_

* * *

_Some months later..._

_._

"Oi, Urahara-san." Kurosaki Ichigo tapped on the door with his knuckles, inwardly giving a sigh of resignation. The stupid Sandal-Hat man was never around when the hours said he'd be, dammit. "Anyone in?"

"_Customer_! A _customer_!" sang out two childish voices—one raucous, one quiet—and Ichigo prepared himself for the inevitable assault.

Red-haired Jinta and mild-mannered Ururu came barreling around the corner of the store, before catching sight of Ichigo and skidding to a halt.

"Aw, it's just that doctor guy, coming for the pills again," complained Jinta dismissively, planting the end of his broom on the ground and glaring at Ichigo accusingly. "Oi, Yamanayasaki-san, ever heard the saying '_good things come to those who wait_'?"

"Yamana… What are you _saying_, brat?! It's Kurosaki, _**KUROSAKI**_! Don't go making up random names for people!" seethed Ichigo, fingers itching to teach the kid some respect. "And that lazy BUM of a store proprietor who happens to employ you promised the shipment would be ON TIME for once! How am I supposed to provide relief for my patients if I don't have the medication to do it with?!"

"Yeah, _yeah_," scoffed the boy, scratching himself. "You're not even a proper doctor anyway—your dad owns the place you work at, right? Besides, hardly anybody wants to take a chance on those crazy expensive Western treatments when there are healers like Unohana-dono willing to do cases for next to nothing."

"I have to charge because your employer charges me an arm and a leg in the first place!" Ichigo growled. "Unohana is a NUN. The clinic, on the other hand, is a BUSINESS."

"Ah, but so is my humble little shop, Kurosaki-kun," airily interjected Urahara, as he pushed open the door and finally made his appearance. "And everyone knows that businesses have to work together to make _more_ business, and then everybody's happy, ne?"

"YOU." growled Ichigo in a distinctly irritated voice, leveling his sheathed katana in the newcomer's direction while ignoring his prattle.

"WHERE THE HELL IS THE SHIPMENT YOU PROMISED ME LAST WEEK?"

"Oh, that?" Urahara smiled, whipping out his ubiquitous fan and fanning himself. "That's all you wanted?"

"That's all I EVER want, you _unreliable_—"

"Well, we ARE talking about the black market here, Kurosaki-kun… you always have to account for some unexpected delays and expenses." Snapping the fan shut, Urahara gave another genial smile. "And seeing as your shipments come from _**ALLLL THE WAY ACROSS THE OCEAN~~**_"

Ichigo facepalmed. "…It's _late_ again. That's what you're REALLY saying, aren't you?"

"Well, actually, we postponed it for another three weeks!" Urahara exclaimed cheerily, putting his finger to his lips with a supposedly sly look. "But don't worry, we'll compensate you duly with a—"

Ichigo's patience finally snapped. "_YOU DID __**WHAT**__?!_"

"Ehh, is your hearing going too? _Tsk tsk_, such a shame for such a _strapping_ young man," opined Urahara, shaking his head dolefully.

"Luckily, I have this contraband gramophone I got from someone at this randomly undisclosed location, isn't _that_ exciting? If you want, I can allow you to purchase the funnel for a low, low price of—"

"_**I'm GOING TO KILL YOU!**_" roared Ichigo, charging headlong at the older man with his sword and scabbard held high like a club. Urahara easily dodged all his efforts to connect—which was probably just as well, since Ichigo was known to '_overreact'_ in the heat of the moment. "_Bastard…!_ Give me one good reason why you're doing this. Just **_ONE_**, and if you can't I'm gonna—!"

"We can give you a reason, Kuramuraki-san," piped up Ururu suddenly, her thin arms full of papers. "Look!"

"Not _Kuramuraki_, for the last time! It's…" Ichigo exhaled sharply through his teeth, suppressing his anger. When he felt like he was sufficiently calmed down, the orange-haired teen turned back and glared balefully at Urahara.

"…You're making them do this on purpose, aren't you."

"I have not the _foggiest_ idea what you might mean, Kurosaki-kun," chirped the Sandal-Hat bastard cheerfully, and Ichigo was forced to console himself with the fact that at least _Urahara_ addressed him by his name correctly.

Taking the stack of papers roughly from little Ururu (but not too roughly—she reminded him of his younger sisters), Ichigo wrinkled his brow as he skimmed through the pages. "What the hell is THIS?"

"The new fad, of course!" Urahara popped up behind Ichigo, leaning on his shoulder and whispering confidentially into his ear. "These… are the secret, _never-before-seen_ FIRST pictures of the famous '_Moon Rabbit_'!"

"…They look like the scrawlings of a brain-damaged forty-year-old to me." Ichigo turned his head, his eyes hard as iron and just as unamused. "A _soon to be __**DEAD**_ forty-year-old."

"Hey! I don't look THAT old, do I?" Urahara protested half-jokingly, tapping his fan on Ichigo's shoulder. "Besides, Jinta-kun and Ururu-chan here did the honors. I just faked the signature."

"Signature?" Ichigo examined the papers more carefully. Sure enough, in the bottom right corner of each page there was a red-ink chop—not official, just a normal wooden imprint like the ones you could buy at any shop selling ink and paper and such supplies. Into it had been carved the rough image of a rabbit in the center of a circle, with the _katakana_ for '**Moon Rabbit**' on the side.

"Do you know the story of the Moon Rabbit, Kurosaki?" Ichigo heard Urahara say, his voice smirking and amused. "It came to us from the Chinese, like most of our traditional things.

"Long ago there was a beautiful girl named Chang-e, who some say was a goddess—or a goddess in a past life, depends on which version of the legend you've heard. When she was a mortal, she was treated very badly by her husband, a king who had become corrupted by power. Perhaps she loved him then fell out of love, perhaps she had no choice… the story doesn't say.

"There came a day when Chang-e could bear it no longer, and that night she ran away from the palace—but the fair maiden didn't leave empty-handed. As revenge for her years of suffering, she stole his greatest treasure: a single pill, containing the elixir of immortality.

"It was said that only half of the pill was needed to make one immortal, but to split it meant that half would be lost—for unless it was swallowed immediately after being split, both halves of the pill would lose their potency. They were meant to be the greatest expression of love, shared between couples who would then dwell together forever, in eternal bliss—like in the Tanabata, you know, with the princess and the cowherd. The king hadn't trusted or loved his wife enough to share this honor with her, and so he hoarded it away.

"Thus it was that Chang-e stole the pill and ran. Pursued by an army of soldiers, she put it to her mouth and swallowed it whole—thinking that at least if she was caught, her husband would never have the satisfaction of retrieving it.

"Within seconds her entire body felt light, powerful… completely free of pain and mortal dross. She raised her arms and her body rose, high into the sky—until finally, she landed on the moon. And that's where she has lived for the last 4000 years or more, waiting."

"Waiting… for what?"

"A man who loves her enough to come for her." Spreading out his arms, Urahara smiled enigmatically. "Her only companion is a rabbit, who spends the eons pounding away with a jade mortar and pestle, compounding the elixir of immortality."

"I heard it makes mochi!"

"Yeah, mochi!"

Startled from the trance Urahara's tale had spun him into, Ichigo blinked at the two kids. "You guys _know_ this story?"

Jinta snorted. "I'm surprised _you_ didn't… well, actually, not THAT surprised."

"Why, _you…!_"

"Now, WHAT was I was saying?" continued Urahara in a thoughtful tone, restraining Ichigo by ever so casually linking his arm to his. "Oh, right, _I_ remember now.

"As you've figured, these pictures were not actually drawn by '_Moon Rabbit_'. However, her REAL pictures are fetching quite a tidy amount on the market—there are those among the wealthy are willing to pay a man's weight in gold for one of her originals, and these are mere pencil or ink sketches that I speak of!"

"I wouldn't pay a copper coin for a _thousand_, if your fakes are even CLOSE to accurate," Ichigo scoffed, handing the sheaf of drawings back to Ururu and ruffling her pigtails with one hand. "Honestly, Sandal-Hat, you postponed my shipment for **THIS**??"

As always, Urahara proceeded to ignore Ichigo's snarkiness. "The price is so high partly because the drawings are beyond compare the most realistic and detailed pictures in this century… but also partly due to the fact no one knows the artist's true identity.

"_That_ is what intrigues them. Is she a noble? Is she a commoner? Is she dead or alive? Is she really a woman?" The store proprietor smiled again indulgently. "No one knows. At least, no one who's telling."

Ichigo frowned uneasily at the expression on the older man's face, and carefully backed up a step. Urahara Kisuke had been an old friend of his father's, and Ichigo had known the man since he was a child—and thus he knew _That Look_ for what it was.

It signaled the birth of a devious, conniving _Plan_, which would involve Ichigo having to do something extremely troublesome, which he would very likely regret.

"Since you've got nothing better to do in the three weeks until your shipment arrives, Kurosaki-kun... how about taking on a little job for me?" Urahara proposed, a twinkle in his eyes that made Ichigo shudder. "You'll be rewarded, of course, for your time and energy."

"…I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Well, unless you _don't_ want that twenty percent discount…"

"Fifty percent."

"Twenty."

"Forty-five."

"_Twenty_-five."

"_**FORTY**_, you stingy old geezer, or you can order Tessai to do it—I'm _fifteen years old_ already, dammit, I'm not going to be pushed around by you so easily anymore!" declared Ichigo hotly, slamming his fist into the wall of the store and making the eaves shake with dust.

"Okay, forty then. Have it your way," Urahara shrugged and bent down to pick up his cane from where it'd fallen, disturbed from its leaning position against the wall. Before Ichigo could pick up his jaw and wonder how the hell that had even _worked_, the shop owner resumed speaking.

"It has recently come to my attention that the number of new works by '_Moon Rabbit_' has dropped off quite abruptly—to _zero_." Urahara snapped open his fan once more and strolled around his belligerent customer, bamboo cane slung casually over his elbow.

"I want you to find out who she is, why she has stopped, and what she is doing now. All this, as quietly and expediently as possible."

Ichigo growled, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Dammit, Urahara… how am I supposed to do _that_? I'm not a friendly get-to-know-you guy, it's not like have many sources I can ask. I don't sneak around like a ninja, or run in a gang. I'm a doctor's son, not a nobleman's—the social circles I can run in are kinda limited.

"And now you're asking ME to find this so-called '_Moon Rabbit_'—who _**nobody**_ knows, nobody has even _**seen**_, and who has practically **NOTHING** for me to go on!" The words were practically ground out by this point, and Ichigo balled his fists, breathing deeply.

"Not true." So saying, the older man reached out and put his hand on Ichigo's shoulder—a very man-to-man gesture, recognition that he had grown from the boy he had been.

"She is an _artist_. She produces things from a vacuum… fragments of dreams that people like you and I can hardly visualize, let alone recreate. Like her namesake, '_Moon Rabbit_' brings light to even the poorest of folk, and dries the rain of human sorrow with the money from her offerings."

"Besides," Urahara added consolingly. "It's not like I ever said it was going to be easy."

**...**

**TBC.**

* * *

A/N: Finally, Ichigo appears... and some semblence of a plot actually forms. Urahara is fun to write for. X3

The Legend of Chang-e I modified a little in places to fit the story... I actually don't know the Japanese equivalent of her name, although from what I read there is a Japanese version of the tale.

As with the last chapter, please read and review-- tell me what you think!


	3. When Moon Rabbit met White

_Bleach_ belongs to Kubo Tite; I do not own. Lyrics are from "_The Last Night_" by Skillet; I do not own either.

WARNINGS: Same as before.

...

**Portrait of a Prince (Who Would Be King)**

**Chapter 3: When Moon Rabbit met White**

.

There was a time when I was paper, blank and formless. When I was less than nothing—a pile of soot combined with glue, ground up and mixed with a shallow dish of water.

At that time I was little more than a seed in the apple of her eye, containing the culmination of all her hopes and wishes (_and sorrows and fears_).

But we came together at once: white paper, black ink (_mixed with water bearing the scent of her flowers_) and Rukia's dreams (_nightmares_). I lay there stretched out like a corpse—staring sightlessly into nothingness, pulsing with everything she had bestowed in me.

_**Name me.**_ I demanded soundlessly, aching with that nothingness. I could not contain all that _everything_, and still be _nothing_—**_acknowledge my existence._**

Whether it was knowingly on her part or not, she complied. I would be her Prince, she declared, and brushed my face tenderly as if I was her treasured child. _Shiro, your name is Shiro_. _White_.

_**Shiro,**_ I repeated, the rasp of my voice less audible than the friction of her skin against mine. But that was not which most interested me then. There was blood on the page, thick and rich… Rukia's blood.

I tasted it, cautiously—then absorbed it into the fibers of my (_paper_) being. In all there were three lovely smears of it, the red crumbling already into blackish-brown on my forehead and cheek.

Blood is thicker than water, and it bound us.

...Closer than she would have ever imagined.

......

_This is the last night you'll spend alone  
Look me in the eyes so I know you know  
I'm everywhere you want me to be. _

_The last night you'll spend alone,  
I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go,  
I'm everything you need me to be._

* * *

Rukia had very few dreams outside of sleep. Although recently, what dreams she did have had been plagued by a replay of That Night… blood-washed cobbles, mixed with mud and rain and filth she would never be able to erase the presence of, the backdrop to a murder-suicide and the breaking of a heart.

But tonight, all was calm. Something was different.

Rukia opened her eyes to a wasteland.

....

_What is this?_

Scanning the terrain briefly, Rukia felt at her sash. There was the handle of a blade secreted there—Kaien-dono's _wakazashi_. After the first few weeks she'd given up and tied it to her waist, next to her even in sleep (_it was his spirit protecting her, his precious nakama_). She relaxed and removed her hand.

The ground shifted strangely beneath her feet, and Rukia bent down to examine what it was. It was white, and broken up underfoot—it was not like the stony gray-white of gravel, however, but more like the delicate cream-white of eggshells.

They could be bits of seashell, she surmised. Rukia had never seen the sea, for all that her country was a chain of islands surrounded by water, but her brother had had a large thing he called a _conch_ on his mantelpiece. One day it had fallen and shattered on the floor before the hearth, and the remaining curved pieces had looked similar to this.

Crunching noises. A whinny.

Rukia looked up.

There, seemingly out of nowhere since she hadn't seen him approach, was a lone horseman. His steed picked carefully through the uneven terrain, slowly yet gradually heading in her direction.

She stood there still, indecisive. He had obviously seen her, and since he was mounted and she was on foot there was no point in running.

Her hand went to her sash again, but she hesitated. No, it was not yet time to defend herself either. Best to find what this stranger wanted first, before deciding on a course of action.

So she faced the man with her hand still loosely poised on the wrapped handle, waiting for him. As his small figure drew closer she realized he was dressed all in white to match the desolate surroundings, but his horse had black tethers and saddle and harness like her brother's, and she could hear them jingle in the tepid air.

When he was within a proper speaking distance, the stranger swung over the back of the horse and dropped lightly to the ground—and when he raised his head Rukia gasped.

"K… **_Kaien-dono_!?**"

It could be none other. His features jumped out at her, as if clamoring for her attention: his beautiful, clear blue eyes with their characteristic Shiba lashes; his dark angled eyebrows and noble mien, his _smile_. Rukia drank in the sight hungrily, forgetting that she seen this for countless nights in a row—forgetting that they had been nightmares, forgetting they were now reality.

"Rukia," he said with a quiet air of gentleness, the way one might say a blessing, and offered her his hand.

"Come. We have much to talk about."

* * *

_...The last night away from me..._

* * *

"You're dead, you know," Rukia said frankly, as they rode together, her in front of him and straddling the saddle like he was. The ground still crunched loudly under their steed's hooves, and she raised her voice to compensate. "This is my dream."

"As you keep reminding me," teased Kaien-dono, giving a little slack to the reins so the horse could amble on faster.

"But shouldn't you be less serious? Here we can at least catch up and have a little conversation. Aren't you happy to see me?"

"…I am," Rukia admitted, and leaned back into his comforting warmth. _White doesn't suit him, though_, she decided privately, _and neither do those strange ruffles_. "I am very happy to see you, Kaien-dono."

She could feel him smile, and the very thought kicked her blush up a couple notches to a near florescent glow.

"I'm happy to see you too, Rukia."

In a land with what seemed to be no landmarks whatsoever, Kaien seemed to be able to make his way around with unusual ease. Or at least his steed did—wherever they were heading, it would be impossible to make her way back on her own. All the same, it wasn't like she preferred being stranded in the wilderness when she could accompany her Kaien-dono once more.

All of a sudden a small roofed building practically rose out of the piles of shell (or so it appeared) and Kaien-dono whistled to the horse, pulling deftly on the reins.

"We've arrived."

"Eh?" Rukia examined the building, eyes widening. To be absolutely frank, it looked like a miserable wooden shack that would fall over if one so much as blew on it. "Where is this?"

Dismounting and securing the horse's reins to a stray post, Kaien-dono looked back up at her and chuckled softly. "Welcome to my current humble abode, Kuchiki Rukia. I hope you find it not beneath you to enter?"

…Well. When he put it that way, it was hard to refuse.

Bracing herself on the saddle with both hands, Rukia attempted to follow her _sempai_ to the ground—but found, with some puzzlement, that she could not. After a few more aborted tries, she smiled weakly.

"My legs… it seems they've gone numb from riding so long."

Without a word Shiba Kaien came forward and lifted her off the horse, seemingly without effort. She squeaked at first, startled—but when he pulled her more fully into his arms as if he intended to carry her for the rest of the way, she rallied quickly.

"Thank you! …But I think I can walk on my own."

"Do you think so?" he grinned, walking toward the shack and not relinquishing his grip for one moment. "Well, please don't mind if I disregard what you just said now."

"K-_Kaien-dono_—!"

"Don't call me that, Rukia." He said it reproachfully, but without heat. "I'm _dead_, remember? And you're just _dreaming_."

Flustered and a bit vexed at having her own words turned against her, Rukia finally resigned herself to the inevitable. "You don't have to go so far for me. You really shouldn't."

"Aa, so you keep reminding me."

He set her down on the porch area, carefully arranging her legs in a comfortable position. Then he plopped down next to her, his shoulder and arm flush against her own.

For a few minutes they just sat there, enjoying the quiet and the company. After all, it wasn't like the scenery was very inspiring.

"…Maybe you should consider planting a garden here. You had lovely gardens at your house."

"Hey, that's an idea. Don't know about the ground, though." Kaien scanned the landscape with his eyes, a slight frown furrowing his brows. "It's barren and empty. I wonder if anything will grow."

"It _will_ grow," she promised, slightly emboldened. (And after all, it _was_ her dream, was it not?) "Whatever you choose to plant, it will."

The wrinkles eased from his face as she spoke and he listened, and he smiled. "I need you to do something for me, Rukia-chan. Will you?"

It was an innocent enough question, and without hesitation she immediately answered, "Of course."

_There is nothing I would not do for you_.

"Very well then." Without further warning Kaien leaned forward, turned her carefully to face in his direction, and unhesitatingly captured her lips with his.

When she felt his mouth on hers, Rukia recoiled, a furious flush spreading over her cheeks. "_What_…!?"

He grabbed her chin and pulled her back to him, kissing her languorously. His tongue slid over hers in what was definitely intended to elicit a response, and she felt his fingers' bruising grasp molding to ease her jaw open just a little more…

Crimson-faced, Rukia grabbed both his wrist and his face and shoved them both a safe distance away from her. "**S-_STOP_!** You forget yourself _entirely_. Miyako-dono's soul would cry tears of _blood_ if she knew you had acted thus—_mMMfgh_!"

"**_Whatever I choose to plant_**," Kaien murmured insistently into her mouth, between interspersing light nips and ravenous kisses, "**_will grow._** Isn't that what you said?"

"_Nngh_!" Rukia exclaimed (or tried to, despite her slow suffocation).

In her panic she went for her blade and drew it swiftly, knocking the larger nobleman hard in the side of the head with the sword handle.

Kaien grunted briefly in surprise and fell back, and in doing so accidentally let go of her. Unthinkingly Rukia gathered her feet beneath her and followed through with her training (the moves he himself had taught her… _oh, irony of ironies_): slash across eyes, the throat, sword plunged through the ribs and into the heart.

When the tip of her blade thrust out his back and he coughed in something like surprise, blood running down his chin and bubbling in the gaping hole in his throat—she let go of the _wakazashi_ and fell back, crawling till her back hit the wall.

She'd just killed him… again. There was no denying it this time.

_Now_ the horror set in.

Trembling uncontrollably, Rukia lifted her hands to her mouth, feeling the heavy slickness of her lips—he'd kissed her. _Kissed_ her!—and wished her mind would stop whirling and just go blank…

And then gave an involuntary scream when the slit in his neck started closing, making an eerie hissing noise as the edges slowly annealed. Overcoming her fear and disgust, Rukia got up and edged closer to the body, cautiously peering into his face.

That was when she did a double-take: there was _no blood_ where she'd cut him.

Instead, something white peeked out from beneath the parted skin and at first Rukia thought she'd faint, thinking she'd cut to the bone.

But if so, where was the _blood_, the _gore_? Where were the _muscles _that should've been there?

_This… this man is NOT Kaien-dono_.

_He is a **fake**, and I am a __**fool—**__for being so taken in by a disguise that was only skin-deep._

With her bare hands Rukia ripped and tore at the tanned flesh-colored skin, digging her fingers underneath the papery layers. _It was but a mask all along_, she thought in a sudden blast of fury, and continued de-facing the Kaien-counterfeit until he lay revealed.

Through the shredded fragments of Shiba Kaien's face, a flattened skull leered out at her. Three black claw-like marks arched from cheek to temple on one side, lending a strange sense of lopsidedness to its blank, hateful expression.

As she watched in sick fascination, those wide grinning teeth parted and a sinuous tongue slipped out, running along their broad surfaces. Then in the dark crevasses of the sockets two bright yellow irises unexpectedly bloomed, flickering and whirling with the light of a malicious, demonic flame.

"_**Rukia…**_"

* * *

"…kia? _Rukia_!"

Starting awake with a shuddering gasp, she sat upright—only to ram headfirst into another person's face with a sickening crunch.

"Shit!" the person swore, stumbling back a step and holding his nose. Rukia quickly struck a flint and lit her lamp, raising it into the air to better see her nighttime visitor.

It was Abarai Renji—her dearest, oldest friend.

...And also, the LAST person she'd expected to see. Especially at _this_ hour of night.

"Renji? What are you doing here?" she exclaimed, lowering the lamp—her fingers still shook slightly from the dream and the shock, and she didn't want it to seem so obvious. "Are you all right?"

"Aa… I'm okay, I'm okay," the tattooed street-fighter mumbled awkwardly, letting his hand drop back into his lap.

As he did so, Rukia noticed for the first time that he was dressed formally, wearing a dark robe and even what seemed to be a baboon-fur cape covering his shoulders. He had a new sword—no longer that crude _bokken_ of wood or bamboo, but a real one with a bronzed hand guard and a proper sheath.

"Wow, look at you. You've come up quite a bit in the world since I've last seen you," she murmured, trying not to think of their last meeting and what had been said.

It was evident Renji remembered as well, for he reddened like his hair and glanced away.

"S-sorry. I… this is hardly the place or time for our reunion, is it?"

"Perhaps not," she agreed without bitterness, but figuring a subject change was in order anyway she abruptly switched to a safer (_less emotionally charged_) topic. "Did Ukitake-_sensei_ let you in to see me?"

"No… but a couple of his subordinates did. They assured me that their _sensei_ knew of my coming and that '_Rukia-sama_' was waiting for me in her room. They kindly gave me instructions and directed me here."

_That Kiyone and Sentarou…_ Rukia sighed, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed at the excessive liberties they had given Renji because of his connection to her.

"I'm sorry... they're a little overeager, but they mean well."

_Although I **am** afraid they sent you here unattended, just so they wouldn't be under suspicion of eavesdropping..._

But it's not like they had anything really _worthy_ of eavesdropping on... right?

"Why are you here, Renji?"

At her question the red-haired youth stiffened, seemingly doing his best to imitate a statue. "I, ah… I just wanted to tell you…

"I've given up the old life, Rukia. I've gone straight and taken up a post in a noble's guard, and there's a pretty good chance I'm going to be considered for promotion to an officer. Aren't you proud of—"

"_WHAT?!_" she exclaimed, getting to her feet and grabbing him by the collar as she had been wont to do, back in the old days. While Renji looked thrown by the nostalgia, she cried out "But what about Hisagi? Kira? Ikkaku? Yumichika?"

"R-Rukia..."

"What about your _nakama_!" she pursued angrily, shaking him. "You gave them up just so you could become rich and powerful? I can't _belie_—"

"**NO!**" he burst out finally, grabbing her small fists where they'd clenched fistfuls of his collar. "Rukia, you couldn't possibly think that I'd do that kind of thing?!"

She froze in an instant, and wordlessly looked down at his hands on hers.

Noticing her sudden stillness, Renji flushed and let go.

"…Hisagi left a few months before I did, and so did Kira. A lot of the others were breaking off too, by that point... I think Ikkaku and Yumichika are still there, though."

"But _why_? WHY, Renji?"

"Some of us have higher goals and ambitions than to spend our lives fighting for whatever scraps Life throws our way!" he said curtly, smoothing the front of his robes. "Like Hisagi! He's off playing sidekick to some blind warrior monk guy who fed him some lines about justice, and peace… Kira found a bodyguard job with some lesser official, and is also rising in the ranks. And I—"

He stopped. Rukia, still somewhat stunned over his shouting and ranting, looked at him.

"And you…?"

"I—I just wanted to be closer to you," he said lowly, almost mumbling. His face was turned away from her at this point, but she could tell the tips of his ears were burning red.

"I… you can drive guys _crazy_, Rukia. I was just a mad dog, and you were…"

"Renji, Renji. What are you _saying_? You're making no sense." Rukia tried to laugh it off, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

But Renji would not be deterred.

"The man I'm guarding… is the heir to the noble house of the Kuchiki." He raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. "Your brother, Kuchiki Byakuya."

"He's been looking for you. And he's asked _me_ to bring you home."

* * *

_The night is so long when everything's wrong  
If you give me your hand I will help you hold on  
__  
Tonight... to Night._

* * *

"I can't believe that old Sandal-Hat bastard." Grumbling, Ichigo stuffed the list of names Urahara had given him back into his clothing. "Telling me all that, about being a man… and then sending me off to chase some dumb fairytale!"

"I don't think it's _dumb_, Kurosaki-kun," protested his friend Inoue Orihime, latching onto his sleeve and tugging it. (To be frank, she was more '_a friend of a friend_', but they were thrown together so often she probably counted.)

Orihime also worked at his dad's clinic as a healer, and was quite good at what she did. She'd proved her mettle and her worth on some pretty near-impossible cases, and his dad was looking forward to the day they'd get some real credibility because of her.

Overall Ichigo thought she was okay, although sometimes he found himself really puzzled as to what went on in her head. This was the main barrier to him and her becoming as close as he was to Tatsuki, the friend they had in common.

"Inoue, have you ever heard of this… '_Moon Rabbit_' person?" he finally asked, handing her the description Urahara had jotted down for him. It contained mostly details about where her works had mainly originated, the subject matter of her drawings, and things like that, but at the bottom he'd made an imprint of the seal for comparison. "I have to find her for Urahara-san."

"Hmm… I'm sorry, but I don't think so."

"That's fine," he shrugged, taking it back and sticking it with the other papers tucked inside his collar. It had been a long shot anyway, and he hadn't really expected much of a response.

"Why don't you ask Ishida-kun, though?" she suggested, tucking a strand of her light orange hair behind one ear, where a flower ornament glistened in the last rays of the afternoon. "He's really smart, and he might be able to help."

"Uryuu? That effeminate seamstress?" Ichigo rolled his eyes and smirked. "Well, of _course_ he'd know about fairi—**YOW**!"

"I resent that, Kurosaki. Learn to speak well of your betters." The man in question came out from behind him, prodding him with the end of his staff. "And the proper term is _TAILOR_. Another word to add to your _limited_ vocabulary."

Clutching his throbbing head, Ichigo glared daggers of death at his assailant. "Oi, asshole! Hope you aren't claiming to be one of my '_betters'_ now, are ya?"

"Save me your useless posturing," the dark-haired youth sighed, adjusting his glasses with a slight wince. Ichigo was about to retort when Orihime cut in, sounding worried.

"Ishida-kun, what's wrong with your hand?"

"Ah, this? I sprained it earlier when I was practicing archery." Ishida indicated the cloth bandage wound about his wrist. "It'll be all right in time, although until then sewing is going to be significantly less satisfying."

"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Ichigo asked, without enthusiasm. There was no love lost between Ishida and himself, even though they kept their enmity at a companionable level and most people who knew them would call them friends (with intense rivalry issues)—but he was a doctor's son, and ingrained in him was that instinct to do all he could for the people around him, regardless of his own feelings.

The bespectacled tailor bristled. "If it was JUST looking, _perhaps_. Although I don't see how a brawler like yourself could be trusted to treat anyone, even if your father _was_ my father's colleague."

Ichigo scowled darkly at the reminder. Years ago, Kurosaki Isshin and Ishida Ryuuken had attended the same medical school overseas, and when they returned they happened to marry and settle down in the same city, and their sons were born within the same year. As such, there were too many coincidences for Ichigo to be perfectly comfortable about the connection the Kurosaki and Ishida families shared (and continued to share).

And he couldn't help that he'd fought his share of battles in the past and even recently… even if some of them had been for the stupidest reasons. But it wasn't like he deliberately got into fights so he could defend the honor of his HAIR!

Short of dying his hair black, there was nothing he could do about the fact his mother had been foreign, and that he took after her. The same could be said for Inoue, although for some reason nobody seemed as compelled to beat her face in as they did his. _Damn gender double-standards_.

"Would Ishida-kun mind terribly if I examined it then? It may be silly of me to worry so, but I'd like to be sure—"

"I wouldn't mind at all. If it's Inoue-san, that is," Ishida said hurriedly, a slight flush gracing his features for a space of mere seconds. If Ichigo hadn't been looking for it, he probably wouldn't have noticed it. It was hardly obvious that neat, polished and composed Uryuu harbored a secret liking for the sweet, bubbly and eccentric Orihime, and as such she was completely unaware of it.

Ichigo grinned at him while Inoue took his arm as they walked, fussing over it all the way to the clinic where she made him sit down and relax while she ran off to get the proper supplies. Ishida did as he was requested, and when she was gone Ichigo leaned his shoulder against the door with his hands tucked into his sleeves and said casually, "You are so whipped."

The light flashed on his lenses as Ishida fired a dirty look in his direction. "I warned you what would happen if—"

"I'm not going to tell her, _geez_. Not when she could do so much better." And also because when you decided to get drunk and have a sodden Q and A session with your enemy/friend/rival over cups of shōchū, retaliatory facts on both sides were to be had in plenty. The ones they _remembered_, anyway.

("_You got beaten by a girl and started __**crying**__?? My GOD, Kurosaki, why haven't you slit your belly yet in shame?!_")

"Like you?" As dry as Ishida attempted to make the words, the emergence of a strong, barely-hidden resentment in his tone was enough to startle Ichigo out of his joking banter and back into seriousness.

"I _told_ you already, Uryuu… I don't LIKE her like that. And it's not like I _want_ to fall for anyone, either."

"You had a crush on Arisawa Tatsuki once, didn't you?" Ishida remarked idly, turning his wrist and lightly testing its limits, while Ichigo sputtered and went red.

"I'm not surprised. Your type seems to be intense, slender and remarkably dedicated."

"That's not a type," Ichigo muttered, rubbing his face and steadfastly looking at the ground. Never again, he swore mentally, would he touch alcohol. _Never, EVER again_. "You might as well be describing yourself."

"As _if_, idiot. Don't disgust me." Ishida made a face of mixed revulsion and horror, and Ichigo couldn't help but snicker.

"_Ichi-nii~!_"

"Eh, Yuzu?" Sliding open the door at the sound of her voice, Ichigo looked down at his fair-headed sister. "What is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt, Ichi-nii. But Daddy's off carousing with Urahara-san again, and told me to ask you to take care of this," she passed him a note, smelling strongly of fermented rice wine.

"What NOW?" Unfolding it with sharp, irritated motions, Ichigo briefly scanned the contents and groaned.

"Trouble, Kurosaki?"

"Like _hell_. My old man's sent me off to take care of Kenpachi Zaraki again."

"Ah." Understanding flooded his eyes and Ishida smirked, the light glinting off his glasses almost sadistically. "Try not to get so slashed up this time, you muscle-brained dolt."

"Yeah, Ichi-nii. Getting into fights with a patient after you fix him up is counterproductive anyway," came Karin's bored commentary. His black-haired sister came in holding a tray with tea and some snacks on a plate, and set it down as an offering for their guest.

"Maybe we should start asking Chad to go with you, if you're worried about getting carried away."

"Hey, _I_ don't get carried away—HE gets carried away," complained Ichigo, crumpling the note savagely. "You think I _enjoy_ running for my life every time he gets in a fight and decides that fighting ME would be the perfect finisher to the day? _**DO**_ YOU?!"

"What_ever_, big bro. Kenpachi-san asked for you, and you're the one who's going."

"Uryuu-san, will you be staying for dinner too? With you and Orihime-san, we'll have places set for six tonight."

"Thank you, Yuzu-chan. But I'd hate to impose…"

"No, of course not! And anyway, I was wondering if later you could fix up my little Boss-san, his stuffing's coming out again—"

"It's starting to get dark. Just hurry up and go already, so we can have dinner soon," Karin said, giving her older brother a little push toward the door as she went back to keep Orihime from the kitchen.

When facing such evident unconcern for his well-being, Ichigo had no choice but to grab the first-aid kit they had set up for house calls and leave, sliding the door shut behind him with a disgruntled bang.

"My father is crazy, _lazy_, and irresponsible. My friends are screwed up, my father's friends are even _more_ screwed up, and I am just so _screwed_," he mumbled to himself, slipping the bag of healing paraphernalia over his head as he made his way down the emptying street, to meet his fate.

But this was his life, pathetic and troublesome as it was… and truthfully, he couldn't imagine it ever changing from how it was now.

...

_I won't let you say goodbye,  
I'll be your reason why._

_The last night away from me,  
Away from me._

**...**

**TBC.**

* * *

A/N: Yes! Finally an update... terrible writer's block for a while, which is why I hadn't updated earlier.

I've got things plotted out roughly for the next few chapters, so I'm hoping it will go more smoothly from now on. Nevermind that I'm starting school again... this upcoming Monday... -sob-

Comments or confusion about the chapter? As always, please review!


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